


Between Black and White

by dancey94



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Rising (2007)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Drama & Romance, Dystopia, Eventual Romance, F/F, Friendship/Love, Hannibal Rising References, M/M, POV First Person, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Soulmates, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-06
Updated: 2017-08-01
Packaged: 2018-11-09 21:24:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11113158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dancey94/pseuds/dancey94
Summary: Set in a dystopian universe where only finding your soulmate allows you to see colours. People from the upper class are lost and derailed, looking for help. They search for companions - vagabonds, whether pretty or talented - who would brighten up their days.Will Graham is one of such wanderers. To his genuine surprise, he is selected as a companion to none other than Hannibal Lecter - a mysterious man with a dark past that is yet to be unfolded.





	1. The storm

I

 

Among the many pretty boys, I sit, slouching slightly but remembering about my posture every now and then, and forcing myself to straighten up. It’s difficult. My shoulders ache when I try to look dignified. My spine has got used to being bent and twisted in various positions and I got used to it being like that.

I look to my right, where a group of fine young boys stand and chat, smiling as if they were friends awaiting a great adventure. To my left, there are more chairs occupied by boys like me – lean, practically weak, almost starving. We are at the edge. Being here is our last resort before we either jump or stab or lie down. Jump form a bridge, I mean; stab ourselves with a knife, obviously; or lie down on the tracks, waiting for the next train to end our misery that other people call life.

By other people I mean the ones that live in the house I am in right now. I only had a chance to see the hall and a part of the kitchen as I was walking here. The garden itself is huge and I can only imagine the backyard. The space is vast and creating a sense of power but at the same time also a sense of purity and innocence. Still, everyone knows the vile, obscene and vulgar things that take place in such houses.

Here we are, the prettiest boys left in town who have not been taken into one of these houses yet. We are acquired, as everyone says, not taken. Yet another vulgar denial of the true nature of the phenomenon which took over the world, at least the one that I know. I have rarely travelled, therefore I know very little of the world outside. It simply doesn’t exist to me. Not really. It exists only in the books that I have read but, sadly, I have come to a realisation that they all might have been nothing more than a sham. Those books have only made me inconvenient, for I know my language quite well and can use it like a weapon. I am literate and I am self-taught, unlike many if not most of these boys around me. Ironically, that places me beneath them in the hierarchy and does not help me in surviving. I conceal my undesirable traits whenever I need to and I get my ounce of water and my slice of bread.

Suddenly, there is a murmur around the boys. A young maid passes us on her way from one room to another and it makes everyone anxious. How much longer are we going to be here? When will this torture of uncertainty end?

The worst part of the selection is that no one has yet discovered the rules of how it works. I may have long hair, I may have short hair, I may be tall, I may be short – does it matter? I may have a crooked nose, I may have tiny palms – as long as I sing beautifully? Nobody has managed to guess who is responsible for the selection, also. Is it the youngest person in the household? The oldest one? The one that is not occupied with any activity at the time?

It seems that my questions have to wait, for the murmur stops and the boys all straighten up unnaturally. We are not required to sit down or stand up. It’s supposed to be an easy and uncomplicated process, like a sting of a needle so thin that the patient does not notice when it’s over. After the selection, the unlucky will be asked to leave and will have to wait for the next one. Some under bridges, some in shady facilities, and some will not make it until the next time.

I look to my left, where the maid disappeared, and wonder who will appear in a moment. Is it going to be a fair young girl or an old troubled man? Is it going to be a bored and disappointed couple or a lonely dying woman desperate for some fun in her last days?

It turns out to be none of those. Or perhaps all of them?

A man in his thirties crosses the threshold and walks lazily, as if asleep, still dreaming, through the corridor we were put in. His posture is not noble and his clothes would never make me think he is a member of a highborn family. Only his sharp features emphasise how far away socially we are from each other.

I cannot see him clearly yet, as he passes the boys in the chairs next to me, but he’s getting dangerously closer. The next few seconds stretch to hours because I watch him walk past me and towards the door to my right, without as much as even throwing a glance. It occurs to me that perhaps he’s not interested. That it is only a minor inconvenience in his day schedule and he wants to simply get it over with. He will pick up the last boy he passes and ignore him for the rest of his stay here.

The maid runs towards him, perhaps to accompany him or pass a message for him. He stops, hearing her footsteps, and without turning back, he leans to whisper something in her ear. Then, I watch him leave. He crosses the threshold and vanishes behind the door. So that was it.

For a split second I wonder if he’s allowed to send us all away. Then, as my view is blocked by the maid, I come to the conclusion that I must have done something wrong. I look up at her and am about to stand up, like a student called out by the teacher, when she cocks her head and speaks.

“Come. I will show you your room.”

I stare at her in disbelief and she continues to silently observe me. It appears something unexpected and incredible has just happened and we both seem to have difficulties comprehending the situation. I feel that it may be the beginning of a beautiful friendship based on shared astonishment.

The rest of the boys leave the house, some resigned but most as shocked as I am. Better luck next time, I wish them in my head and stand up to be led to my new place of living.

I count the stairs on my way up and end up almost bumping into the maid. She says nothing but I sense she already resents me; I only hope it’s a temporary mock resentment and that we will soon become friendly. Frankly, I make a fool of myself thinking I could make real friends in times like these and house like this but what else is there if not foolish wishes and unfulfilled promises?

We enter a corridor with a few pairs of doors on both sides and she leads me to the very end of it. She opens the door to our right and ushers me inside. My self-taught manners tell me to let her go in first but it appears to me she is not going to enter the room at all. So I cross the threshold and already invent the name for my new room – it’s a cage.

There is so much space that I could throw parties here for almost a hundred of people, if only I knew so many. There is a double bed in the far end of the room. There are small round tables and armchairs. There is a shelf with bottles of liquor on it – all kinds: whiskey, gin, wine and more. There are glasses in a cabinet. And there is a wide wardrobe with various clothes in it. I touch them hesitantly and enjoy the fabric they are made of.

As I turn, I spot the maid still standing by the door, watching me. Her attentive gaze causes me to blush and look away, back to discovering my room.

“My name is Alana. Please, don’t use any diminutives. It’s Alana,” she says and I nod. Message received. “You can call me if you need anything.”

“Can I ask you what he told you? The man downstairs.”

“His name is Hannibal Lecter. He’s the only heir of the Lecter family. I advise you to tread carefully around him. You don’t want to make him angry or vengeful, believe me.”

I frown at her, not fully comprehending what she meant yet acknowledging her warning. As she walks away, I begin wondering if I made a mistake by coming here. I am a free man. I can walk out of this room anytime I want. No one will follow me; no one will look for me. I am here out of my own volition. If I am under threat, I will leave. That I promise myself as I step closer to the window and attempt to consume the view of the vast backyard.

I see a small park and a pond behind it. I make a mental note to ask Alana later if swimming is allowed. It should be, unless they keep fish in the pond. Suddenly, I realise it has become quite bright outside. The water in the pond sparkles. For a moment, I feel nostalgic and already sucked into the lifestyle of the people who chose me to be here. Am I going to become as miserable as they are? Or am I already?

I take a glass from the cabinet and pour myself a drink. Not much, just to ease the transition. This is going to be my life now; this is going to be my home. At least until the Lecters or I become bored.

 

II

 

There are three different paths that go through the park. One is a straight line, leading to the pond. It’s for people who are in a hurry. I am not, therefore I choose the second path, the one to my right. Exploring should take me enough time to digest the alcohol and possibly get it altogether out of my bloodstream.

The path is twisted, like a winding river, contorted in a vicious way. I put one foot in front of the other, willingly accepting the challenge. There is something at the end of this path and I want to know what. Out of the sudden, it strikes me that an overwhelming silence surrounds this place. For a shortest moment, I fear that I lost my sense of hearing, but I am disproved by the sound of my shoes dragging along the path that reaches my ears. I listen to the birds chirping and wonder: is that not enough for them? I suppose nothing will ever be enough. They have their freedom, their huge villas, their money, their parties, their drugs. And nothing will cure them of their misery. Nothing will alleviate their loneliness.

That’s where I and the many pretty boys and girls come into the picture. We live to help them. And while we’re at it, we hope to help ourselves. We are fed, clothed and kept like pets, although they say we are free. But the minute I walk out of here, I am again a homeless, hopeless boy who is only a number in the statistics. A death toll.

The society created us, as it created so many other things and concepts. And we live to obey; we live to conform to their norms. We are their hope and they are ours.

I look up from the ground when I hear footsteps. Someone has taken the same path as I have.

“Alana?” I ask into the space. I do not yet see the person who’s coming but I hear them stop. It’s not Alana. She would respond. Unless she came here expecting someone else. Did I discover a path to a hidden rendezvous locus?

The footsteps resume after a while and I know the person is getting closer. I see only parts of clothing through the thick bushes but I know it’s a man. It’s the man. Somehow, I can sense the change in the atmosphere, a different scent invading the air. Then, I see him clearly.

Hannibal Lecter. The man I know nothing about apart from the fact that he’s the only heir of the family. He stares at me and I wonder: why did he choose me? What made me stand out in the crowd of pretty young boys I found myself among? Or perhaps there was nothing special about me; perhaps he selected me at random, like a card from a deck when a magician asks you. Was I marked somehow?

“You.” He says and keeps watching me. I cannot decipher whether he’s mad or glad or completely indifferent. Hesitantly, I nod, not sure if I should bow but then I whisk away the thought. He’s not, despite the fact that he’s harbouring me now, my master. I do not owe him anything.

“My name is Will,” I say so that he knows what to call me. I hope he doesn’t address me ‘hey, you’ ever again in the future.

There is no reaction to my words, no response, whether verbal or not. It’s like I wasn’t even here, though he’s looking at me. This will not be a successful transition, I think. If he decides to ignore me, I will not be able to help him.

“You must be curious, what did I say to that maid? Why did I choose you?” He finally speaks and I discover that his voice is rough. With his next step towards me, I sense danger and, when he’s no more than a feet away, I can see it in his eyes. These are the eyes of a man who knows pain and who will stop at nothing to get what he wants. “Did you ask her?”

“She wouldn’t say.”

“Well, then. I will.”

His gaze shifts from my eyes to the trees around us. The wind becomes stronger and the rustling of leaves becomes louder. It’s not so bright anymore.

“A storm is coming,” he announces but stands still. I already know he’s a difficult type. Or he wants to think he is. Perhaps if he was stripped of all his secrets and illusions he’s creating around himself, he’d be just an ordinary guy and that’s what he’s afraid of. But I’m only making assumptions here.

“Should we go inside?”

He shrugs. He’s making me incensed with his nonchalant attitude. Is there truly nothing he cares about? Or is it just a façade? It’s me who should be anguished and sour. It’s me who’s found himself among strangers expecting entertainment and salvation. But I cannot afford complaining.

“Do you want to have a drink and tell me what you said to the maid?” I ask. I must try. It’s simply my only way of having a life: food and drink and a place to sleep.

Without a word, he turns and starts walking. I follow him, uncertain about what comes next. Is there a future in this house for me?

 

III

 

He barely looks at me when I hand him his glass. I hear a thunder but it hasn’t started raining yet. I wonder if the weather somehow determines how _they_ feel. It used to bother me a lot – when it was windy and cold and dark or when it was so very bright that my eyes hurt. Now, I’m more stable but the rain remains my weakness. I love the smell of the air during a storm and the brief stings of cold as the drops hit my face. I only started hating it when I was forced to stay whole nights in the rain – cold and abandoned, forgotten by the world.

I look out the window, at the vast backyard where we were mere minutes ago, but I can feel his eyes on me, burning a hole in my skull, and stabbing me with that arrogant sigh of his. I am not here to make him happy, I think; I will be his end. In that prolonging moment of sheer silence, I understand it was not his wish to have me here.

“You didn’t select me, did you?” I ask and turn to face him. Some would call it bravery but I know it’s foolish of me to play the smart one. I am here, after all, to release people from thinking, from caring too much. Although, I must say, they’ve been doing pretty well so far on their own.

“No,” he replies and swallows the rest of his drink. “I told her to choose whoever she liked best.”

And she chose me? I will never believe it was a random selection. A random selection would be choosing the boy standing the closest. A deliberate selection would take at least a moment of comparison and thought. That was neither.

“I’d argue that wasn’t exactly wise of you but I understand why you did it. You see no difference between us. So it doesn’t matter if it’s me or the boy next to me, or any other boy, for that matter.”

I’m aware I crossed a line here. I revealed myself as a thinking human being. Will master Lecter punish me? Will he throw me away?

“I see no difference between you because I don’t look. It was not my intention for you to be brought here. I did not volunteer to select _a companion_ ,” he spits. There’s venom in his veins, instead of blood, I am sure of that. He can kill with a bite or a kiss.

“Perhaps, I could play the role of the Shakespearean jester.” I know I revealed myself as educated again. “I can be completely honest with you, instead of making hollow attempts at making you laugh. Or would you rather have me walking around the house, silently like a ghost, and watching your every move?”

Finally, he narrows his eyes. I have his attention now. He places his empty glass on a table; I refill it, wondering if I have just made a terrible mistake for which I will pay solemnly.

“Let’s play a little game. After all, that’s what you’re here for, isn’t it? So,” he sips the drink and looks me straight in the eyes. “I will spend…,” he looks at his watch, then at the ceiling, thinking intensively. “I will spend two hours with you every day for the next week. If, by then, I’m cured, I will marry you.”

I choke on my drink. Such serious words, yet uttered so lightly. Is he truly that arrogant? Or is he simply certain he will never be happy? I can’t force him to celebrate life if it’s not in him. And I cannot marry him as a part of his whim.

My mouth becomes dry, my eyes sting. I am doomed. I have to leave this place immediately unless I wish to be chained to that strange man and his quirks.

“What do you say? Would you like to be my companion forever? Are you ready for that?”

No. I simply cannot conceive of the fact that someone’s life has become such a misery, a vast empty space waiting to be filled and knowing it never will be. There is so much sadness in Lecter’s eyes, I see that now. There is hurt and disappointment and an unbearable cold. It is no indifference, I notice; it is denial.

“Fine,” I reply. One simple word, but I see it tickled his ego. Did he assume I would not accept his challenge? How many before me have rejected him?

“I’ll see you at dinner in an hour. Then, we can have a little conversation,” he states and puts down his glass before leaving me alone in the room.

 

IV

 

The house is huge. It feels as if it’s even bigger on the inside. After walking slowly for no more than five minutes, I already find it difficult to tell the way back to my room. I discover a large library, by accident, and wonder if master Lecter would let me read a book from the vast collection he holds here. Would he look at me with contempt, or, perhaps, with respect?

I walk downstairs, enchanted by the place. The rain continues, persisting in keeping me inside, which is ironic and strange, since I am used to be wandering the streets, even in the rain. It’s also odd how quickly I managed to draw a thick line separating me from the life I had only a few hours ago; it’s a far past now.

I pass a long corridor with doors on both sides. I don’t think I’m allowed inside and I don’t want to risk the life that I may have here. If I’m careful and clever.

Then, I hear a woman hum. There is a pair of door that is slightly open, enough for me to see Alana clean a small round table. I look at her, ashamed of myself. What should I say? Can I ask about the Lecters? Will she answer?

“I’ve lived here long enough to recognise who’s coming by their footsteps alone,” Alana states before turning to face me.

“Sorry. I shouldn’t be sneaking up on you.”

“No, you shouldn’t.”

I already like that she’s honest with me. Sure, I’m no one here, yet. I know I don’t belong. She doesn’t, either. Perhaps that’s why she can afford being friendly with me. Or is she even friendly?

“He told me that it wasn’t his decision,” I admit, hoping to learn more. Does she sense how genuine I’m being here? “He did not select me.”

“And you believe him? After less than a day?”

There is no hesitation on her part. She did not flinch when I said I knew master Lecter was not the one to choose me. Her voice is steady and indifferent, with no detectable accusation or judging.

“Why shouldn’t I?”

My question is not a sign of naivety, blind optimism and trust, or lack of experience in life. It’s more of an attempt to grasp the situation I found myself in fully. What is it about master Lecter that I should find so…unapproachable? Besides the fact that he seems entirely not contented with having me in his house.

Alana stops mid-chore and looks at me, tapping her foot clothed in a neat slipper against the polished floor.

“I suppose the question I could answer is why I chose you.”

I nod. That’ll do. For now. It takes courage and determination and a lot of patience. She doesn’t have to talk to me at all. I’m not here to befriend maids or gardeners.

“You seemed genuine.”

That was all? It was all it took for her to make that decision? Not much, to be honest. And it was all based on a glimpse she had of me sitting in a chair.

“The rest of the boys were looking for a place to hide, to live comfortably, certain they would never succeed in making anyone happy.”

“Do you think I could make someone happy?”

Again, her eyes pierce into me. That is where I find the answer to my question. She believes that people can love. She believes in true friendship and selfless kinship. And it isn’t because she is naïve. Somehow, I get a sense that she experienced something good in her life, something that she cannot let go of. What is she doing in this house, then?

“It’s going to be a long way, if it’s going to be master Lecter, but I believe you have it in you.”

“How can you tell?”

It’s addictive to have someone describe you, especially in a positive way, without knowing the first thing about you. I can barely refrain from smiling.

“You have kind eyes. I don’t know your story, I don’t know why you’re here, but I know you’ll try to help him. You’ll try to understand him.”

Her words, like a prophecy, almost like a warning, reach my ears and send an impulse straight to my every cell. My lips part. I frown. What will happen when I understand master Lecter? What is she not telling me?

“I’m sorry. I’m busy at the moment,” Alana says and returns to her duties.

“Has anyone before me ever tried? Has anyone managed?”

I just need to know that one thing. Then, I’ll go. That will be my first clue in the long path to learning Lecter’s story.

She scoffs. My question made her think I’m silly.

“What do you think? Do you think you’d be here right now, standing in front of me, if someone succeeded? Have you seen the man?”

“Yes. He’s hopeless.”

“It shouldn’t surprise you.”

“It didn’t. But I get the feeling that you know him. You certainly know him better than I do. Could you at least give me something?”

She sighs. It’s visibly painful for her to deal with my restless curiosity and questioning. Still, it’s obvious that the reasons for my behaviour are valid and that the next few days are going to look exactly like that – I will ask many questions, and since Alana is the only one that I’ve had the pleasure to meet and talk to in this huge house, she will be the one to carry that burden with me.

“Dinner is about to be served. I couldn’t simply summarise his life and what I know about him, and definitely not in such a short time,” she explains and adds after a moment of consideration. “It shouldn’t be an easy task, should it? To get to know him. To try to understand the reasons behind the workings of his mind. Do you think it should be easy to love someone?”

Now, I see that she’s lost in her train of thought. She’s lost in the game played by her own heart.

“Do you love him?”

My question throws her off balance. She looks at me, baffled and astonished. Then, she laughs loudly, in a manner that would fit a maniac.

“Oh, no. I’m not going to be your rival in this competition. You don’t have to worry about me. I was just… Never mind.”

I know that’s the end of our conversation. I know she will not spare any moment longer to talk to me, to give me as much as a vague hint how to approach Lecter. Perhaps tomorrow. But before I am out of her sight, I state.

“It shouldn’t be too easy because then we wouldn’t care for it. I suppose this,” I look around ostentatiously, “is our punishment for that.”

 

V

 

The food is amazing. The taste and the smell are blinding. I sit by a table, just an out of place guest, in a chair designed for just about anyone. Lecter is sitting at the head of the table, the chair on the other end remains empty. The master of the house, who took me like a stray from the street, now acts like he’s not present in the room.

He’s eating silently and as if absent-mindedly. But he’s not swallowing mindlessly, without taking notice. He’s not eating a lot, actually. Just enough to survive, it seems. A bite, a pause, then another bite.

I look at the plate before me and even though I know that someone put a lot of effort in making what I’ll be only consuming appear the best it can, the meal is nothing more than a piece of fabric. It’s a shape, a mere puddle on a plate. I’m supposed to believe it’s nutritious, that it will let me live another day in this house. I’m aware that in comparison to my previous life and the food that I ate, this is luxury. This is caviar. Still, it’s not in any way appealing. Only after I take the first bite, I know.

I close my eyes to forget what I saw and focus solely on the taste and smell. It seems to be the only way not to go crazy and starve. When I swallow, I feel relief and the divine sweetness and sourness and everything in between. Where one sense fail, there is power in others.

“Could we, perhaps, start our conversation right now?” I ask, disturbing the perfect silence. Strangely, I don’t feel worried about him getting upset.

“Impatient, are you?” He raises his head to look at me. I have his attention now. “I suppose there is no reason why we can’t begin our adventure right away.”

For the next few seconds I am scared. I fear that I stirred something that I shouldn’t have even touched. He remains silent and keeps looking at me, although his gaze moves away gradually until he’s facing the window, deeply lost in thought.

“Where are you from, Will? Were you born in this town?”

“No. I moved here after my father died. We used to move wherever they offered him a job.”

“I used to move a lot, too. And now I’m stuck.”

“Would you like to-”

“I don’t live alone, you see,” he says before I finish my question. I frown.

“What do you mean?”

“She’s gone now, away for a week or two, or a month. Presumably until I fall in love with her present. Which will never happen and she’ll have to come back one sad day.”

His voice is changed – it’s tired and absent, like a voice of a ghost who recalls his life.

“Who is she? Is she your wife?”

“Will you stay here when she returns?”

“It depends.”

“I guess she could take you off my hands. Perhaps you…” He hesitates. He knows he’s angry now and he wants to contain his anger. “I’m not hungry anymore.”

“Do you want to have a drink?”

His outbursts are unpredictable. He laughs out loud, hysterically, staring at me. I’m a source of amusement for him.

“It’s all we have left, isn’t it? Drinking and aimless, purposeless wandering. Filling our time with filth and vulgar voyeurism. It’s all we have left to care for.”

His short speech is like a volcano – with a great unforeseen eruption and then slowly dying out. I wonder what it is he truly wants.

“What do you care for?”

He looks at me with these sad eyes of his and the expression of sheer sorrow. There is grief there - for something unachieved, something he sorely misses. My heart skips a beat, whether in fear or excitement, and I wait for him to spit more at me or say what he wants from life.

“The rainbow,” he whispers and stands up from the table. I do not dare ask him to repeat what he said louder but only watch him leave the room. I am alone again.

 

VI

 

I pass the paintings on the wall: the women, the hunters, the squares and the shapeless patches of paint. There is some hopelessness in them, a feeling which I seem to already associate with this place. Life has never been easy and it has never treated me with excessive politeness but I have never seen a person as disappointed as Hannibal.

I will not talk to him tonight again as I’m certain he would not like to see me, not now, if ever. So I head towards my room, my cage. I collapse on the bed and drown in sadness. It’s contagious. The walls seem to close in on me. It’s getting dark outside and I see the lights being turned on all over the district. Soon, I’ll be engulfed in darkness and madness pervading this house. ‘The rainbow.’ What is a rainbow? It must be something my generation was deprived of.

My eyes close on their own. All I can hear is my breath slowly escaping my mouth and the gentle clicks of my heart. There are so many things I am missing right now. I remember the melody I once heard. It wasn’t a song – there were no lyrics – but the sole tune, the rhythm and the circumstances compelled me to sob. I can recreate that melody in my mind perfectly. I wonder if I could hum it. Perhaps that could be the cure for his weakness. Perhaps his rainbow is the unforgettable melody I carry in my heart?

The night has fallen, offering me peace and rest. The room I was given is cosy and incomparable to the conditions I used to live in. Yet, somehow, I cannot make myself fall asleep. The tiny clicks of my blinking eyes start to annoy me. I force my body to rise and open the window. The fresh air hits my face, announcing an impeding storm.

My throat is sore. Thirst clouds my senses. I turn to reach for a bottle of something, anything, and then withdraw. Alcohol will not lull me into sleep tonight. I reach for the doorknob, instead, and leave my luxurious cage.

As I pour myself a glass of cold water, I hear faint laughter coming from the room next to the kitchen. Then, a familiar voice reaches my ears. Alana. I step closer to the door with the glass of water in my hand. It’s not polite or appropriate but I can’t help myself. She’s my first ally here. She may be my source.

“…and she didn’t even blink. She just turned around and left!” Alana finishes a story and bursts in laughter. Another female voice joins in, enhancing the warm sound.

“Poor Margot. If only she knew…” the other woman says and, after a pause, the girls start laughing again.

Margot. I never heard that name before. Well, I am not going to be any more rude, eavesdropping on a private conversation, so I leave the kitchen and head back to my bedroom. 


	2. Drowned

VII

 

I skip breakfast. And it’s not because I’m not hungry. Although my stomach has shrunk a lot due to constant lack of food and utterly inconsistent nutrition, I still experience hunger and I still need to eat in order to live. Apart from ending up hungry, I lose an opportunity to talk to master Lecter. As I walk into the kitchen shortly after nine o’clock, it’s already too late for anything. Lecter is gone, somewhere, shopping or hunting or looking for a safe space. It seems like now he can’t even feel comfortable in his own house. There is little privacy with a stranger wandering around, invading every corner and exploring whatever hidden space there may be.

Alana enters the kitchen with a smile on her face. Her dream-like expression fades gently when she sees me. Then, she greets me quietly and pats my shoulder. I almost expect her to sing or at least hum any second now.

“Someone’s in a good mood,” I observe, aware of the risk of her getting annoyed with me.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

I smile in response and follow her to a living room. She starts dusting the furniture, ignoring me completely. It’s only after I speak that she responds. I wonder if that’s the way she’s been taught or if she’s naturally modest in her use of words.

“Do you mind if I help you? _Can_ I help you?”

“Why not? You can take the cloth and wipe the floor.”

I nod and do as I’m told. My presence does not seem to bother her. In fact, it’s like I’m not even here. Alana is preoccupied with dusting, while I investigate my reflection in a floorboard. Is there truly a need to wipe the floor so clean I can see my own sad face in it? Regardless of the answer I don’t dare to ask for, I wet the cloth and get to work in a sweeping gesture.

“You know, there was a writer who said that physical work is what makes us mentally satisfied. That efficiency is what makes us happy,” I decide to nudge her intellectually and otherwise. Perhaps she could tell me more about master Lecter before I see him again. Oh, to have an ace up my sleeve, that would be just wonderful.

“Do you believe that?” she asks, her tone is supposed to sound ironic but I can sense that she is genuinely curious if I trust my own words.

“Perhaps. I believe whoever said it did it because he never really had to work hard.”

That remark gains me an ally. Alana smiles knowingly and for a moment watches me at work.

“I’m wondering if master Lecter could benefit from an intense physical engagement.”

“I want to see you try and engage him.” She says, visibly amused. Then, as if she remembered she actually respects Lecter, as if she truly cared about him, she adds. “He’s not lazy, you know. Actually, he’s rather lean. And he’s got muscle. He doesn’t eat very much but…just enough. He rides a horse, he exercises…”

“I see. But these activities are not efficient. They’re selfish. He performs them for his own gain, his own amusement. When I wipe the floor, _even though I don’t have to_ , I do it for myself and others who will walk here. There is a difference.”

The grimace on Alana’s face makes me believe she understands what I’m saying but not fully agrees with it. I see her withdraw and make a leap in her mind onto another subjects. As she continues dusting, I continue my investigation.

“He said he doesn’t live alone. What did he mean?”

Alana turns to look at me, surprised and somewhat confused.

“He mentioned a she,” I clarify.

“Yes. Lady Murasaki,” Alana says as if that was the most obvious thing in the world. The name sounds exotic and I begin wondering if that’s Lecter’s wife. I’m already inventing stories of his travels to Asia in failed attempt to find rainbows. I’m making up an image of an oriental beauty promised and sold or offered Lecter as a gift. I’m imagining how she was not happy with him and neither was he with her so he sent her away. Then, (I’m following my invented story), after some time, he decided to try to find a companion but the boys that arrived did not fit his expectations. And yesterday, what he meant was to give me away, to offer me to his wife.

“Master Lecter’s aunt,” Alana clarifies and that’s where I’m lost. My whole imagined tragic story falls to pieces and I have to replace it with a more plausible one. “She was married to master Lecter’s father’s brother.”

“Was?”

“He died. This whole family is dead. Lady Murasaki is the only relative master Lecter has left. It was her who invited you here. She wanted master Lecter to… She hoped a companion would take his mind off of morbid fantasies.”

Her voice fades at the end and I look at her questioningly. She realises she’s said too much but it’s too late now. I know. And I will pursue this line of questioning. And when I ask _him_ , he will be mad. And he will know someone let me in on the story.

“You need to talk to him, you know, not me,” she defends herself.

“But I learn more from you. I believe people are prone to telling their version of the story. It’s always subjective. And you… You’re the closest to objectivity.”

She smiles warmly at me and I sense her embarrassment.

“He’ll need some time but I know you could make him happy. Talk to him.”

Now it’s her who makes me blush. No one has ever seen me as a successful kind of person and yet she puts her faith in curing master Lecter in me. If I fail, I fail not only Hannibal and myself but also Alana.

“He said something about a rainbow. Do you know what it is?” I ask and pay attention to her face expression because it often tells me more than her words. Not this time. This time, she is baffled and she shrugs.

“Perhaps it’s just something he found in one of his books.”

“Do you think I could go to his library and check?”

“Well, it’s not only his library. Lady Murasaki isn’t here to give you permission but I think if she was here, she would definitely do that. Besides, they invited you to their home and unless master Lecter gave you any specific instructions or introduced specific bans, you are allowed everywhere.”

I look around the room, trying to assess the amount of work still left, although there was nothing wrong with it in the first place. I wiped a greater part of the floor but I wouldn’t want to leave Alana after offering her to help, even if that’s her job to do.

“So, do you think you’re going to manage without me?”

“I have, for many months before you came. I’ll be fine,” she says and returns to work. My help is not necessary even if it’s appreciated. So I go.

 

VIII

 

The room is filled with books and I can smell all the places and people they describe. Some are arranged neatly in alphabetical order, some based on the size and some seem to be placed in no particular order. I take it as a sign – his favourite books could be arranged in a way no other person would be able to understand.

I tilt my head and read the titles. I know most of them.

They are old books of renown authors or those few rare exceptions – the books that no one has ever heard about yet they are priceless. I reach for one that I know, simply to remind myself of the wonder that is print. I smell the cover and stare at it as if it was some ancient, recently rediscovered artefact.

Still, no rainbows. I focus on the reason why I came here and slowly, one by one, I open the books that are unknown to me. There are very few illustrations and none mentions colours. Time seems to have stopped but it’s obvious I’ll have to leave soon if I don’t want to get caught. I’m not ashamed of my education and I got the sense that master Lecter does not mind me being able to read or think. Still, my presence in this house depends mostly on my performance and I am determined to stay as long as I can, with roof over my head and food served on a plate.

Then, between two thick volumes of a dictionary, I spot a folded piece of paper. I take it out, certain I discovered something that was meant to stay hidden. Upon unfolding the paper, an old, vintage poster with a weird triangle in the centre appears to me and I cannot help feeling like this is an important image for someone in this house. I have no idea what it presents or what is its meaning but I can sense its value.

A light stripe follows a path to reach the triangle and that’s where magic happens. The stripe is divided into more narrower stripes, all of a different shade. It’s the first time I see something so inconceivable, so difficult to grasp, at least for me, but something so powerful in its oddness.

 

IX

 

Fresh, cold air hits my face as I step out of the house. The wind pushes the door violently, making it shut with a loud thud. I look up at the sky in vain hope of spotting a rainbow, even though I wouldn’t know that I’m looking at one. But the sky is a plain patch with no brighter or darker spots. It’s empty and emotionless. I circle the house and head for the pond. This time I take the straight path, leading right to the water. On a hot day it would bring salvation, alleviating the dryness and the burning sensation on my skin. Today, however, it brings nothing more than the sting of helplessness and anxiety.

As I take a look around, standing by the edge of the pond, I spot master Lecter on the other side. He’s quite far so I cannot see his face but I’m almost certain it shows distress and apathy. His posture tells it all. He’s slouching over the water, staring directly into the surface which mirrors his despair. Then, some determination as well as resignation appears in his movements and it takes me slightly too long to realise what is happening.

I stare motionlessly at the lean body falling head-first into the water. Only when it disappears under the surface do I start running towards it.

He’s not going to drown, not really. It’ not about his death. It’s about the show, I know that already. He’s a showman. But right now the reasonable thoughts leave my mind because I saw him disappear beneath the surface and I cannot let him hurt himself. I will not let him hurt himself for the sole purpose of having attention.

I step into the pond where his body should be and look for him. My hands reach underneath the surface, my eyes focus on the various shapes. I call his name, like a mother scolding her child. _You, young man, are to get out of the water this instant!_ The image makes me laugh and I must truly look like a character in a black comedy. The whole scene looks absurd and I don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to survive in this madhouse.

Finally, he grabs my arm and I start to pull him out of the water. No, he doesn’t want to die. Perhaps, not today. Perhaps, tomorrow. Tomorrow he may want to repeat his performance. Shall I be his saviour again? How often will we act out the scene?

He collapses on the grass and breathes heavily, trying to regain control over his own body. I cannot help but assume it’s his mind that needs fixing first.

 

X

 

We sit silently for a long moment. It takes a while, really. He’s wrapped in a blanket and trying to get warm by the fireplace. I had to watch him get undressed to his underwear and had to listen to Alana’s grievances in a raised voice, something which I suspected she was capable of but that I would never witness. And by _I had to_ I mean that I did it with no hesitation, not a single flinch. It seems one day was enough for me to assimilate. Am I a madman, too?

So now, we are sitting here, our faces lit up by the fire, our minds and bodies tired.

“Won’t you offer me a drink?”

His question reaches my ears but it’s like I’m hearing voices in my head. I ignore it for a second and then I hear him sigh. We’re further apart than I thought.

I can’t stand the silence any second longer. I’ve had enough for the day. Just a quick glance at Hannibal – his head thrown back, eyes closed, arms loose, hanging on both his sides – and I am ready to leave. Not forever, not leave the house. I’ll be upstairs, mere meters away from him and his madness, his recklessness.

As I walk through the corridor, I see a newspaper on one of the small tables. No one will notice, will they? Not after such eventful day. What will happen to Hannibal now? Or perhaps it’s nothing new and I should just get used to fishing him out of the pond. From Alana’s reaction I gathered that it was not surprising; still, she was mad about what had happened.

I grab the paper and head for my room. I’ll have that drink. Alone. In the comfort of my own troubled mind.

 

XI

 

I don’t know if that’s the weather or the alcohol, (definitely the latter), but I find myself waking up after a nap in the middle of the day, something that have rarely occurred in my case. Suddenly, everything that has happened that day appears to me like a dream or, more accurately, a nightmare. Could all that have happened? Could Hannibal really want to throw himself into the pond and wish for the water to take him, slowly and painfully but forever off this cursed land?

I look at the empty bottle on the table and remember. The article in the newspaper, the suicide attempt, the memories mixed with misleading images. It all led me to wishing some liquid would absorb me, too, as I was absorbing it. And then, I fell asleep, falsely believing that I was, indeed, drowning and making my daring wish come true.

It’s already dark outside so I turn on the lights and check the time. Still well before midnight. I skipped another meal today. At that rate, I will die due to malnutrition. No help necessary.

I go downstairs, at least attempting to be quiet, and hope to grab something to eat, even the leftovers. Then, I’m experiencing déjà vu: I enter the kitchen and I hear Alana and the other girl talk in the other room. They giggle and sigh and I get the sense of privacy disturbed by my voyeuristic inclinations. It’s not that I take pleasure in eavesdropping and forcefully divulging something meant to remain secret. I believe it has more to do with me always being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Despite my greatest efforts to go unnoticed, the fridge closes with a low thud and suddenly the voices fade out. I want to sneak out as quickly as possible and not have to confront my only ally in this house. I hear commotion in the other room and before I manage to leave the kitchen, the door opens and Alana appears in the threshold. Her arms are crossed on her chest, her lips curved in a wide smile. She knew it was me. Who else would it be, sneaking out in the middle of the night for something to eat after a day of struggle – both mental and physical?

“It’s rude to listen in on someone’s conversation without them knowing,” Alana remarks. The other girl is standing behind her, obviously using Alana as a shield. She’s not interested in taking part in the scene.

“I wasn’t listening,” is the only response I can think of and I know it’s ridiculous the second it leaves my mouth. “At least, it wasn’t my intention. I just came to get something to eat.”

“Yes, I can see that. Alright, goodnight,” Alana says and turns but I speak before she disappears in the other room.

“What happened today, Alana?”

Her sigh is almost theatrical, loud enough to be sure I heard it. She touches the other girl gently on the shoulder and pats it reassuringly. Then, she closes the door behind her friend so that the two of us stay in the kitchen alone. No witnesses.

“Come. Let’s go to your room,” she says and we go upstairs in utter silence.

It’s only after I close the door to my room that she opens her mouth again.

“He’s never done it before.”

“Or perhaps no one knew? If I hadn’t seen him today, he might have made up an excuse and we’d never have known.”

“No. He never tried. He never…”

“I think you owe me the whole story.”

She ponders on my words. There is something she obviously needs off her chest but she hesitates. Is there something I shouldn’t know? Is there something so dark they keep it only among themselves? I remember the article and wonder how I’d feel if Hannibal was responsible for the-

“I hoped you’d talk to him. I hoped he’d tell you. But these things take time. You can’t expect him to tell you everything after one day of knowing you.”

“Why not, though? Isn’t he desperate? Shouldn’t he cooperate?”

“He… he still loves someone. And he needs to get over it before there’s more damage involved.”

I blink a few times. Hannibal Lecter loves someone. Somehow, it’s beyond my comprehension. Master Lecter loves someone and yet he’s miserable. Well, I could see why that someone may not love him back. But…

“Who is that person?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does to me. And to him, obviously. Why did they split up? Or were they even together? Was it just one of his fantasies?”

“It was.”

Alana becomes more and more sad before my eyes. The memories and images must be haunting her and I force her to relive whatever it is that’s so terrifying. She’s right, though, about my role to stop him from doing more damage. If only I could talk to that person…

“They’re no good together. They’re both…special. You should focus only on master Lecter,” Alana states and leaves my room.

It’s late. It’s really late now. I eat the leftovers I managed to smuggle out of the fridge. I believe I coined a nice plan in my head but I suppose it’s going to take some time before I can see the results.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i took me some time and the next chapter may take some as well...  
> i'm busy writing my MA thesis and a fic for the Big Bang which has a few parts  
> but if You're patient and interested then i think You can stick to this fic because the mysteries are only going to be unravelled


	3. A monster

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> really sorry for the ENORMOUS time period that it took me to write it  
> also, really sorry for any mistakes and typos and tense mixes but i just...  
> i haven't really felt like writing recently :/

XII

 

I manage to appear on time for breakfast. Hannibal is reading a newspaper and sipping coffee while I devour a piece of something sweet. I haven’t seen Alana yet; I suppose she’s busy.

The windows are open and the wind moves the curtains in them. As we continue to sit in silence, the only sounds are these made by the birds outside and the trees – also poked by the wind.

Suddenly, Hannibal puts down the paper and looks at me. I assume I have something on my face, a tiny piece of food or… He looks at me, clears his throat, and begins to speak.

“I’m going on a ride. Do you want to join?”

Is this another test? Does he want to throw himself under a racing animal and see if I rescue him again? Still, it may be a great opportunity to talk to him, about everything and seriously. Perhaps it’s my cue? I should accept and find out.

“Should I go change my clothes?”

“They’re alright. We’ll leave after breakfast.”

“Oh, but I’ve actually never ridden a horse.”

My statement seems to annoy him more than anything. He smiles, shaking his head, because of course I’ve never ridden a horse. That forces him to give me at least one lesson on the basics. I see it as another opportunity to talk.

We go to the stables after we finish breakfast. There are three horses there and Hannibal strokes every one of them. I watch as he offers them his time and care. He checks if they have been fed. It’s an adorable picture so I can’t help smiling. Hannibal turns to look at me and then at the horses. There is process of comparison, elimination and combination that I can’t see because it’s happening in his head, and then the decision is made.

He approaches a brown horse on his left and leans over it. There is a murmuring, a moment of hesitation, and then Lecter beckons me closer.

“Sheila. She’ll be yours today. She’s very calm and can probably can take better care of you than you of her,” he says all the while stroking her mane.

Then, the basic notions and movements are introduced. Hannibal shows me how to hold the reins and tells me how to speak to Sheila so that she’d listen. I realise there and then that master Lecter loves his horses more than anything and anyone. Does he suffer a heartbreak because of that? Because he showed greater affection for Sheila and the others, rather than the person he claimed to love?

 

XIII

 

We set off after a while – slowly, dragging across the field. We ride in silence, enjoying the warmth on our faces, the wind in our hair and the rustling of leaves coming from all sides. There is something liberating about this and I begin to understand why Hannibal would love to escape his miserable life on a horse. I look at him and catch him red-handed as he glances at me. Our gaze lock awkwardly and then he speeds up. I try to catch up with him but he’s too fast and I don’t want to fall. Sheila leads me slightly slower behind Lecter, allowing me to admire the view and derive pleasure from the simple fact of riding a horse for the first time.

In the distance, I see Hannibal stop and reach for something by a tree. Perhaps a fruit of some kind. Sheila finally levels with Hannibal, who throws an apple in my direction. I catch it slightly awkwardly and bite in. It’s sour so it perfectly complements my diet for the day.

We move on, slowly again, as we eat.

“Are we going somewhere specific or just strolling around?” I ask.

Hannibal looks at me, then at Sheila, probably checking how we’re both feeling and if we’re up to a real journey. He takes a bite, then another. I wait.

“A woman in the neighbourhood makes the best tea. We could visit her if you want to. Although she’d be much more glad to see Alana than you,” he remarks.

“Why?”

“Well because she has a crush on her.”

“And Alana?”

“She works for me,” Hannibal looks at me like at an idiot that I actually believe he has me for.

“Yes but I mean does Alana reciprocate the feeling?”

His face falls. He looks away and then he races forward. Sheila follows his master, though, for the moment, I should be her leader. We ride a few minutes until we approach a huge gate. The path leads toward an even bigger mansion than that of Lecter’s.

We are greeted by a servant who takes care of the two horses after we dismount. Hannibal leads the way to the front door. Another servant greets us and we follow him right to the large living room. The space is vast. I imagine there could be balls organised every day in a different room. There are paintings on the walls – some which I know from the albums and books. There are flowers and vases and ornaments. Every single detail in this house seems to be well-thought and nothing is out of order.

“Margot!”

I hear Hannibal exclaim with genuine pleasure. The woman that enters the room is tall and slim. She’s wearing a dress with flowery pattern which emphasises her breasts and widens at the bottom. Her long curly hair are only pinned up high by the forehead so that it wouldn’t fall on her face. She is a beautiful woman and the gentle smile she offers Hannibal makes me realise something – these people live in a circle of misery and unrequited love. The way I see it: Hannibal loves Margot, Margot has a crush on Alana and Alana is resistant to Margot’s charms. I actually remember her mention the name. All of the sudden, I feel sorry for everyone in the room, including myself.

“I hope you forgive me this unannounced visit but I went for a ride and suddenly craved your tea,” Hannibal explains.

“Oh, naturally, I’ll call someone immediately to make you your tea. And who is this young handsome man at your side?”

“Where are my manners today? Allow me to introduce to you – Will Graham, my companion. He’s a new addition to the house.”

Not sure how I should behave, I wait for her to offer me her hand. She extends it, instead, in a way offering a handshake. I’m relieved. It’s a gentle squeeze but I feel her warm hand pressed to mine, her smooth skin against my own, and I can imagine why anyone would fall for the woman.

“Pleasure to meet you, ma’am,” I mutter and we are asked to sit down.

“The tea will be here shortly.”

“Tell me, how is your brother?” Hannibal asks as he settles in the loveseat. I move farther, in the room’s corner, to sit in an armchair.

“He’s well. He’s been sleeping a lot lately. I guess that’s convenient, especially for the people taking care of him.”

“That’s good.”

We’re given tea and for a moment silence engulfs the room.

“I was thinking of organising a dinner party. Would you come?” Hannibal asks.

“Without your aunt? Gladly.”

I’ve never met Lady Murasaki but my image of her gets more and more clear. At least from what I’ve heard of her.

“I see it as an opportunity,” master Lecter continues, “to resolve some issues. I hope to invite a small circle of people but people whose company I would enjoy rather than simply tolerate.”

“Good.”

Another moment of silence passes.

“I’m aware it may seem strange but I’m going to invite Alana. I’m sure she has at least one dress she could wear for such an occasion. Will, of course, will attend, too.”

I look up upon hearing my name.

“And how is it for you? Having a companion.”

The word is such an odd one. It feels old, misused and makes me feel like an object. Somehow, it gives me a sense of being lower than servants on the social ladder.

“Oh, he’s been in the house for a couple of days and already managed to save my life,” Hannibal says nonchalantly.

“What happened? Is he your…?”

“No. I wouldn’t suppose so. Who knows. But he, uh, he helped me get out of the pond when I slipped and fell into it.”

Margot narrows her eyes and nods. She’s not buying the story but she’ll accept things as they are so long as everyone is alive. The tea tastes really amazing but I cannot help feeling cheated because it was not Margot who made it.

“Well, I’ll be glad to join you at the table. Soon, I hope.”

The meeting is mostly silence broken by occasional questions and pleasantries. We finish the tea and are ready to head back. Margot sees us off with a faint smile and watches as the servant leads the horses for us. Soon, we’re on a path in the middle of a meadow that I know is not a path leading to the Lecter’s manor.

“Where are we going now?” I ask.

“One more place. It’ll take us a few minutes. Unless you’re not really interested-”

“Why is Margot not fond of your aunt?” I rudely change the subject.

“Many reasons, I suppose. Jealousy, mostly. And she likes me more so whenever I complained about my aunt, she blindly took my side.”

“But they’ve met?”

“Yes.”

“Will I meet your aunt?”

“It depends. And don’t ask on what because it’s complicated. Or maybe it’s simple but it’s a long story.”

“I have time,” I say and muster an encouraging smile.

“Wait, then.”

 

XIV

 

We arrive at a fenced property. The gate is closed and tied with a rusty chain. It seems that the small house behind it was abandoned quite a long time ago. Hannibal rides closer to the gate and then turns right. I follow him along the fence until the corner where we turn again. I assume there is a hole, a gap where we could enter the property, or that Hannibal simply wants to show the house to me from the distance and that perhaps there is a story behind it. He took me here for a reason.

“Quick! Before the sun sets,” Hannibal rushes me.

“What happens then?”

My question is left unanswered; Hannibal only smiles knowingly. I don’t believe in ghosts or any supernatural phenomena, despite the rumours about soulmates and all that. So what are we doing that should be done before sunset? Or is he just teasing me again?

“Here.”

Hannibal dismounts and helps me do the same. We leave the horses there and I cannot help feeling astounded at the devotion and loyalty Hannibal has for his animals and they have for him. We are safe to leave the horses to find them later at the same place.

He tells me to go after him and so we go in a line. Step after step, until we enter a forest. It’s already dark there and we have nothing to light the way.

“Won’t we get lost?” I ask hesitantly.

“I could find my way blind out of here,” he assures.

There are no more words for a while but I can sense I struck a nerve. Hannibal remains silent and is reluctant to speak again. He simply walks forward, pushing branches out of the way and lifting his feet high. There are clear traces of the path that used to be here but it’s faded. I wonder where it leads and suppose I’ll find out soon enough.

“Here,” Hannibal states and stops. I almost bump into him.

We are quite far from where we left the horses. It’s a space, in the middle of the forest, and it looks as if a meteor had fallen from the sky and left this space undisturbed by any trees or bushes. It’s empty, only surrounded by the wilderness.

“Why did you bring-”

“Do you want to get to know me?” Hannibal interrupts my question with his own.

I wonder what he means. I wonder what is it that he couldn’t tell me anywhere else but here. It’s getting dark and I’m getting scared that he could simply leave me here to find my way out on my own. Is that what this is? Another test? Or does he want to leave me here to die? Immediately, my mind springs to images of wild animals that could easily kill me.

“Yes,” I utter gently. There is no strength in me to be bold right now.

“Can you hear something, smell something?”

The only thing I can hear is my own heartbeat. I’m afraid and confused and…curious. Despite the possibility of being murdered in a moment, I feel the need to figure out just why he brought me here. Why?

“Do you feel something here?” he continues questioning me.

I’m not sure if I should tell him I feel fear. Maybe that’s what he needs, what he feeds on. Somehow, I realise, I am more than certain that he’s some sort of a predator. I wouldn’t be so scared if I knew him to be a kind and gentle man. I imagine him to bring all his victims to this place. Perhaps he flirts first, lures the prey someway and then…

Hannibal approaches me. He’s one step away from me when he reaches for my hand. I’m paralysed. I don’t know if I should even attempt to fight him. What chances do I have? But giving up so easily appears shameful and cowardly.

He lifts my palm and places it on his chest, right above his heart.

“Now?” he asks.

Now what? Oh. Do I feel something now? His heartbeat. So different from mine – slow, steady.

“There is a way to know if someone lying by looking into their eyes. And I think you can do a similar thing with a heartbeat. Ask me anything you want.”

I gulp and think of the right question. I couldn’t possibly ask him straightforwardly if he’s a killer, could I? Then again, if he’s going to kill me, why bother with the questioning at all? I hate the fact that I’m entangled in this game of his, with no way out, no option to decline.

“It must be a yes or no question, you realise?” he asks and I can barely see his face even though he’s standing right in front of me. Are we going to play this game until I can see the way out no longer? I already can’t. I would wander this forest to no avail if he left me.

“Are you going to abandon me here?” I ask, terrified by how indifferent my voice sounds. Have I already resigned myself to dying?

All I hear is a silence broken by a single sigh. I can barely see how wide are Hannibal’s eyes. Then, I feel my hand being pressed stronger to his chest. His heartbeat hasn’t changed a bit. How should I read that?

“Do you see me as a monster?”

“I… Are you a monster?” I ask and try to get the answer from his heartbeat. Let’s play this game of his, shall we?

Nothing. Not a smallest of change.

“Have you ever killed someone?” I ask, amused rather than seriously hoping for an honest answer. Then, I feel it.

His heart skips a beat. Then, for just the briefest of moments, it speeds up, only to regain its usual steady pace. So he has.

“Right here. He died right here,” Hannibal says but it’s still too little information.

“Why?”

“You’re shaking. But your voice is steady. Isn’t that fascinating?”

I remain silent. Maybe if I show him I’m not scared of him, he’ll let me go? No. Impossible. The second he confessed, I was doomed. It’s settled. And now I can’t help but think of the perfect scheme and admire it. A handsome young man lures the homeless and desperate to bring to life his… How did Alana call it? Oh, yes. His “morbid fantasies.”

“As you know, I live with my aunt now. But it wasn’t always like that. I had a family, a close one. Mother, sister and father,” he begins. I wait to make any assumptions before I hear the rest of the story. “I still some photographs. But I never show them to anyone.”

A moment of silence follows. He clears his throat before he speaks again.

“My family has always been powerful and influential. We had many friends as well as enemies.”

I begin to understand where this is going. And I already regret being alone with him here.

“Someone ordered to have them killed. To have us killed. Well, to this day I don’t know if the children were the target, too. But they arranged it as a car accident. And so the whole happy family on a trip suddenly appeared in the papers, pronounced dead.”

“But you survived.”

“They didn’t know. My uncle came and settled everything so that he could take me and no one knew about it. I was never the sole survivor.”

“Where is your uncle now?” I ask, afraid there is only more death on the way.

“In his grave. Illness took him a few years ago,” he explains and I do everything I in power not to sigh in relief.

“So your aunt is your only family now.”

He nods, probably as annoyed at my bright observation as I am. So that’s the sad story of Hannibal Lecter. Still, I only now notice how it doesn’t explain whom and why he killed here, and I’m scared to simply ask now, even during this moment of complete honesty.

“Can we go back and finish this conversation at your house?”

The sun has set. And so, it seems, my life was sealed somehow.

“Just one more thing,” he says and nods, “Did you think I was going to kill you?”

I gulp. I’m sure he’ll know if I lie.

“Let’s go,” he says before I manage to open my mouth. He grabs my hand and leads me out of the forest. Truly, he walks as if he was a blind man, knowing the path by heart. We are on out horses in no time, ready to head back. He didn’t kill me. I didn’t die.

 

XV

 

As we arrive at the house, the lights are still on in the kitchen. I follow Hannibal, not entirely sure where we’re going. We pass the hall and I only feel safe when we enter the library. He finds a bottle of clear transparent vodka and puts two small glasses on one of the tables. We take the first shot. I wince at the burning sensation in my throat. Are we going to do that all night, until we pass out?

I watch Hannibal approach a shelf and touch the spines of the books there. He’s considering something. Then, he turns to me, looks at me, as if he’s assessing my worthiness. He sits next to me with a particularly old, heavy, and covered in leather album.

He pours us another shot. I assume I need to keep up with his pace if I want this to be a successful night. I wonder if I could impress him in any way.

“This is my mother,” Hannibal says as he points at the first photo in the album. I look at the tall slim beautiful woman and seek resemblance to her son. I’d say there is very little but perhaps he takes after her nature rather than appearance.

“She’s beautiful,” I comment, in lack of any more sophisticated remark.

“She was. And this is my sister,” he points at another photo with the same tall lady and a small girl standing by her side. The child looks more like Hannibal’s daughter.

“Where are you?” I ask.

He turns the page and there he is: with his mother, his father and his sister. A nice little family that I never had. In a way, I suppose, he can understand me as I can understand him. We are both orphans. Although my family was not killed and he had an aunt to take care of him, we are both alone.

I don’t want to reassure him using empty words and awkward phrases. I’m sure he realises that I’m the closest to understand him and to empathise with him. I’m not going to pity him.

I put my hand on his shoulder and pour us shots. Somehow, in all this chaos and fear and confusion, I find myself in the mood for getting drunk.

“This is my uncle,” Hannibal keeps showing me the photos and introducing various family members. I wait impatiently to see the famous aunt but before we get there, Hannibal closes the album and puts it away. “I’m lost.”

The confession makes me sick to my stomach. This evening has been too much. Too much information for my brain to fully comprehend and my heart to process. The man sitting next to me was deprived of his family, have killed someone, and who knows what are his designs for me. He says he’s lost. What am I supposed to say?

“I think that’s enough for tonight,” he concludes.

“You mean the vodka or the reminiscences?”

“Both. I do not know where the time went.”

Neither do I. It was a long day, yet it flew by. And it offered me some answers but more questions still.

I leave him there, after wishing goodnight, and head to my bedroom. My head is strangely clear but my eyes close on their own. I fall asleep as soon as my head hits the pillow.


End file.
